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Blackblade 14.1 - Personal Fears
Raito Raito raced after Shirley, keeping his hand on Vol's wrist. He paused for a second to try and cast Expedious Retreat, but the cursed fey impeded his magic. Grabbing Vol, he decided to try and carry him, which at the very least should prevent him from disappearing like the rest. He ran as best he could through the forest, but the fog hid the ground. Catching a root the wrong way, his ankle twisted and he pitched forward, sprawling onto the dirt. Vol hit the ground hard and rolled away into the fog, and though Raito jumped up almost immediately, the elf, as well as everyone else, had vanished into the mist. Sighing with aggravated resignation, he began to walk into the fog, lacking direction. He looked about for Vol and the others but nobody appeared to be near. A strange sensation of being watched fell over him, and he looked over his shoulder. A thin figure dressed in black appeared to be standing behind a tree, and the mere glimpse of it filled Raito with dread and panic. He raced away at full tilt, stopping when he ran into the shallow waters of a pond. Pulling himself out of the water, he looked around. The water was clear and still, showing his reflection quite clearly. As he moved, however, he noticed that the reflection did not seem to exactly match his motions. They seemed delayed, as though the image was mimicking him a second late. Offended by this, Raito attempted to strike the water with a Ray of Frost. The first time he cast, the spell failed; the second time it succeeded, but as the icy ray lept from his finger, a horrible, discordant noise ripped through his mind, unbalancing him and making his mind reel. Regaining composure, he thought of the faulty Rod of Teleport in his bag. Taking off his backpack, he opened it to retrieve the rod, but as he went to grab it, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out from inside the confines of the bag to grasp at him. Shocked, Raito dropped his bag into the water and ran. Once he managed to calm down and catch his breath, he walked back towards the pond, utterly unwilling to entertain the notion of abandoning his belongings. He walked around the seemingly-endless shore, he looked into the waters for a sign of his backpack. Eventually, something caught his eye and he leaned in. The reflection showed not only him, but the tall, faceless fey standing right over his shoulder. Managing to keep his presence of mind, Raito lashed around while drawing Takuetsu, but as he did, he saw that he was alone. Grasping the hilt of his sword tightly, Raito addressed Takuetsu, telling him to keep guard. The voice of his sword readily agreed, and replied that he would have assisted sooner if asked. After a moment of silence, he added that he could be of even more assistance, if his lord would allow. Raito questioned this, but Takuetsu merely replied that he would help. At this, Raito felt an odd sort of pressure in his mind; he did not resist, and the strange sensation quickly spread throughout his body. Without any conscious thought or will, Raito's mouth and voice moved of their own accord, making sounds he didn't think he was capable of producing and words he did not understand. He yelled something loud and profane, not unlike the language spoken by the devilish creatures they had fought before, then the sensation receded, and Raito was in full control of his body once more. A hissing sort of sigh could be heard on the wind, and the fog began to clear. Raito's throat was left sore, burning and hoarse; Takuetsu graciously said that the spirit would not bother them any more. Sheathing his sword, Raito managed to quickly find his soaked backpack, and continue walking into the woods. He found the others not long after. Caelan Caelan sat dispassionately on Kirsikka's back. He didn't see much point to riding right now, but there wasn't really any point to walking either, and he couldn't be bothered to get out of the saddle. A fog rolled in, and the forest became slightly strange by forest standards, but this didn't seem very interesting. Raito began shouting at Shirley, something about Yomiel being missing. Whatever, he went missing all the time. He'd be back...or he wouldn't. Caelan frowned slightly; something like this should probably bother him. Kirsikka began to shake her head, fidgeting and balking. Caelan urged her forward, not seeing any reason for her to act this way and so not responding to her nervousness. Suddenly, she took off, galloping headlong through the trees. Clinging expertly to her back, Caelan tried to rein her in, but to no avail. Despite his horse's obvious fear, the northman was unmoved, which confused even him. As he dodged branches, he caught a glimpse of something standing nearby. The vision was fleeting; he could not clearly see what it even was at the speed he was travelling. All he knew was that in that instant, the thick fog that had dulled his emotions was suddenly pierced, and a deep, maddening fear suddenly overcame him, intensified all the more by his previous lack of feeling. He raced Kirsikka through the misty forest. Sounds began to reach his ears; sounds of battle, of yelling, of clashing steel and ripping flesh. The fear began to creep deeper, and though he managed to stay on Kirsikka's back, he could not stop the horse, nor did he really want to. The figure made itself seen again, and the panic washed over him anew, beginning to drive the northman to madness. Dodging trees, screaming and clinging to Kirsikka, Caelan fled through the woods, though he could not escape the sounds in his ears or the fear in his heart. Without warning, the faceless fey creature stepped into Kirsikka's path. The horse reared back; Caelan stayed in the saddle, to his dismay, when Kirsikka flipped over onto her back, pinning her rider beneath her. As she struggled to right herself, Caelen tried to pull himself out from under her. As he squirmed, he suddenly felt a cold hand drag its long fingers across his face. He screamed as the fear consumed him, and he passed out. Broken Tusk Traveler stopped in his tracks. The rest of the group hurried on, but Broken Tusk stayed by his side; he would not abandon his faithful companion, not for anything. He comforted the young mastodon, and tried to get him to follow, but the animal was terrified, frightened of something the druid had yet to sense. Despite this, he trusted his friend, and the two started to walk through the woods. The whole area was eerily silent, the only noise made by their footsteps. Something was off about the sound though; Broken Tusk realized that something else was making footfalls, that stopped just after they did. Suddenly, Traveler spotted something and bolted. Broken Tusk tried to grab hold of him, but couldn't manage to hold on; Traveler disappeared into the fog like the others. Picking himself up, Broken Tusk followed after, though he found that the mastodon had somehow left no trail. As he walked, he saw something of a clearing, with a large, gnarled tree at its center. Deciding that finding the others was more important, he continued on. Strangely though, he seemed to pass by this tree again and again. Suddenly, he caught sight of a tall, pale figure nearby. A surge of fear shot through him, but he stifled the panic and remained calm. The figure vanished, and Broken Tusk moved on. Eventually, he decided to investigate the gnarled tree, as it seemed that there was nothing else he could reach through the fog. As he approached it, he could sense a strange smell, something reminiscent of sweat and hair. The tree itself, when he saw it up close, seemed to not be a plant at all; it was definitely alive, but it did not appear to possess normal bark. When he grasped a branch, it was soft and yeilding over a hard core, like the muscles and bone in a limb. Touching it gingerly, he could almost feel a faint pulse. Stepping away from the tree, he made to cast a spell that would bolster his wisdom. It cast effectively, but as the magic resolved around him, a wretched noise of static wracked his brain, shattering the clarity of thought he had just gained. Staggering back, he shook his head. Looking up into the tree, he could see that it bore odd, red fruit. Steeling himself, he began to climb the tree. As he went, he looked over and saw the pale figure again. A second time, he pushed past the fear, and the creature vanished. Climbing the tree to a high branch, he reached out to grab one of the fruits. The "leaves" of the tree were hard, like fingernails, and the fruit was fleshy and moist to the touch. He felt the fruit without damaging it; he was finally convinced that there was nothing normal, nothing natural about this thing he now sat in. Clutching the fruit, he snapped it off of its stem, sending a spray of fluid, not unlike a yellow-red mixture of blood and bile, from the stump. As he held the fruit, he felt a presence at his side, and as he looked forward, he could see the arm and face of the black-clad fey as it leaned over his shoulder. Maintaining his poise and composure, Broken Tusk did not move, and the creature pulled away, leaving him be. The druid crushed the fruit in his hand, sending the bloody-bile into the air and down his wrist. He felt something strange within the fruit's skin; peeling away the flesh, he found a slick sheet of vellum inside. Scrawled crudely on the page was the words "go away". A loud, harsh sound broke the silence. Broken Tusk listened carefully, and recognized it as similar to the vile language spoken by the devilish creatures he faced weeks ago in the Groggy Goose. Something else about it seemed familiar though: the voice sounded not too unlike Raito's. As he pondered this, he saw the fog start to fade, and he set out again to find Traveler. He found him not to long later, cowering beneath a tree. Traveler was overjoyed to see him, and after Broken Tusk calmed him with kind words and soft touch, the two walked off to find the others. Ragoom Ragoom tried to keep up as the others, or what remained of them, rushed ever more quickly forward. His armour was heavy, and the ground was alternately soft and rocky, hard to run on; he tried to get them to slow down, but they didn’t listen. He watched as Raito, Vol, Jack and Ridley got a little by little further away. He blinked, and in an instant they were swallowed by the mist, gone entirely from sight and sound. Ragoom stopped and caught his breath, looking around. He heard nothing but the sound of his breath, and saw nothing but the fog and trees. Pulling out his holy symbol, he held it forward and began to recite the prayers that he knew from his days in the church, praying for strength, for deliverance from the dark, for banishment of that evil that surrounded him now. Something caught the corner of his eye: a tall, thin figure standing by a tree. An uneasy, primal feeling of dread began to creep into his heart and mind, but he pushed it away. “Who’s there?” he called over as he turned and head towards the figure, but by the time he reached the spot where he thought it had been, there was no one there. Returning to his prayer, he walked about, hoping someone would hear him. He tried a few times to cast a spell that might create light to make a beacon, but the magic failed, foiled by the influence of the fey. Something caught his attention; it was the sound of his prayer being echoed back in a distorted voice, its words muffled and cadence wrong. The echo was terribly dissonant with his own words and made it hard to continue; looking around for the source of the echo, he caught sight of the pale, black-clothed figure again. “Hey!” he shouted out, once again managing to stave off the creeping feeling of dread and fear. This time he ran towards the figure, “Who are you?” Once again, it had disappeared by the time he reached where it had been. Frustrated and lost, Ragoom was still not afraid. He called for the others, prayed to his goddess, and searched the empty woods. He called out to the figure that had vanished, wanting its identity, its purpose. A soft wind blew behind him, and he turned around. In front of him, only a few feet away and half-hidden behind a large tree, was the figure: an inhumanly tall, pale creature with limbs too long and no particular face to speak of, dressed in formal black attire. Looking at the terrible creature drew forth an instinctive panic in Ragoom; he inhaled sharply and clutched his holy symbol, but did not turn or run. “What do you want?” he asked it, putting his hand on his mace, shifting into a readied stance. The figure was motionless for what may have been a moment or a second, then, without moving its legs or body, it shifted behind the tree, disappearing. “Hey!” Ragoom drew his mace and ran to where it had been, “Where did you take everyone?!” He stopped; there was no trace of the creature, but a piece of paper had been tacked to the side of the tree. Pulling it off, he looked it over: it was a waxy sort of paper, with black ink crudely scratched into the words “leave me alone” on its surface. Rolling it up and placing it in his belt, he carried on as before. As he hunted, he watched the mist thin, and the strange silence recede. It wasn’t long before he was reunited with the group. Vol Vol tumbled forward, abruptly thrown from Raito’s shoulders. He rolled over in the mist, scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible. “Lord Kamun?” he called to the darkness, but received no response. “Anyone?” His voice was swallowed by the silence of the forest. He was about to call out a third time, but stopped himself, remembering Shirley’s insistence on quiet. There was nothing around: no sounds, no wind, no movement but the tired shifting of the mist over the ground. He took a deep breath and collected his thoughts: it was obviously magic, designed to separate and confuse them, scare them and keep them lost. It was probably the fey again, like the laughing women and the faeries, but darker, more sinister. He hoped that what Shirley had told him earlier was still true, and that whatever had them in its thrall couldn’t, or wouldn’t, kill them. Still thinking of her and what she had been doing earlier, he clutched his staff tightly and began moving quickly, and quietly, forward. As he hustled, he began to hear noises. They were quiet at first, as though very far in the distance: voices, yelling to each other. He stopped and listened, but he couldn’t make out the words. They were women’s voices: not Shirley, but still familiar. His face paled when he recognized them as the voices of his aunts. He turned behind him, where the voices called; he thought he caught sight of a figure, a tall, thin person, wearing black. Panic clouded his senses, and Vol ran as fast as he could manage. The voices grew louder, calling, yelling. He was being chased. They would find him and take him back, back to the room where he would be beaten and starved and forced to finish that terrible magic before they killed him. He looked over his shoulder again, just for a second: the pale figure was behind him, closer. Waiting, waiting like the pale-eyed man. Vol screamed and ran harder, tears clouding his vision as he avoided trees in his path. The voices got louder, and he was sure he could hear rustling and footfalls behind him. They were getting closer. Vol’s breath came in ragged gulps as he pushed himself to run faster. He felt something grasp at his back. His heart stopped from terror; he faltered, tripped and tumbled over himself from full speed. Coughing, gasping and crying, he couldn’t get up again. He tried to scramble forward, but kept tripping over the rocks and roots hidden in the fog. Suddenly, he was stopped short as he ran headlong into a tree, cracking his forehead painfully. Defeated, lost and alone, Vol closed his eyes and curled up into himself at the base of the tree, crying. This is where he was found by the others, sometime later. Yomiel The weather was acting oddly, though waist-high fog and dim lighting was objectively better than the disease-ridden insects from a few days ago. Yomiel walked dutifully along, near Raito and Vol, looking dispassionately at the surroundings. A strange noise met his ears, and he paused. No one particularly noticed; most people didn’t pay him much mind to begin with, and the people who might have cared were ahead of him. It was a humming sound, a song, a melody he had only heard twice before; the dirge that was sung when his older siblings had died. How could anyone, or anything, know that song out here? He walked a few feet in the direction that he could hear it, and as soon as it began, it stopped. Shaking his head, Yomiel turned back to the others, who, like the music, were suddenly no longer there. He drew in a breath through his teeth, making a sharp hissing noise of self-derision. The fey had suckered him again, and this place didn’t give him the pleasant, content feeling that the blue foxfire and dancing faeries had. He looked about, and listened as hard as he could, but there was no movement, no sound. It was an unnerving, total silence. Yomiel gritted his teeth. He probably wasn’t on the mortal plane any more at all, and wouldn’t be again until whatever fey here had tired of their whimsy. Stupid, stupid, falling for that, he berated himself in his head. He stood his ground, waiting, knowing that searching would be futile and if the fey had drawn him here, then they would make their intent known without his permission. As if on cue, he heard the song again, closer this time. Sighing, knowing that he was going to walk into a trap but having no particular means of avoiding it, he turned towards the sound. Standing some distance away was a tall, thin figure. The blood drained from Yomiel’s face. He didn’t know what it was, or what it wanted; he only knew, from some deep, instinctual part of his brain, that he had to run. So he did. Turning and running at full tilt, he tore through the misty, dark forest. He fumbled as he ran, and pulled out a small vial from his pocket. Drinking its contents to accelerate his speed further, he could feel the magic begin to take effect in his muscles. In sudden response, a horrid distortion of sound and thought ripped through his very mind, shattering his concentration. He tripped and fell, clutching his head and trying to regain control of his thoughts and breath. Standing up, he looked around, trying to get some sort of bearing. The figure was still there, standing motionless, yet somehow closer now. Yomiel could feel the terror claw at him, but he pushed it away despite the haze that the wretched sound had left in his mind. He stared at it, defiant and angry, and it seemed to meld into the tree beside it, vanishing completely. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself down. The music started again. He tried to ignore it, to focus on something or anything else, but it was insidious, coming from one direction, then another, then everywhere at once. The humming noise surrounded him, despite his efforts to block it out. A quiet voice spoke above the song. It whispered in the language of his family. Yomiel stood frozen, tense, his eyes locked directly ahead. The voice continued, Yomiel’s muscles tightening more with every word. Suddenly it was directly behind his ear. But you already are, aren’t you? It asked in Leshrved, as he felt something reach to grasp around the back of his neck. His composure snapped, and he ran again, sprinting as if attempting to outrun death. Thoughtless and heedless of everything besides the trees in front of him and the horror behind him, he ran. Suddenly, a new sound met his ears, causing him to stop in his tracks. This was no whispering illusion, no subtle noise of fear; it was harsh, cruel, brazen in its evil. The sound of a devil yelling. Yomiel took cover by a tree, grasping the makings of an explosive in his hand, his previous fear overtaken by this much more tangible threat. His heart may be confused and panicked from the fey, but his mind was still sharp: the fey would not stay where a devil walked, and the beings of hell are far more direct and assertive in their destruction of mortals. But what brought a devil here? Was it another sent to get the elf? There was no way it could have found them; calling scrying fickle in the mountains would be overly generous, and they weren’t even in the mortal realm right now anyways. The ominous sense of fear began to recede; the fey was letting them go, putting them back. He held his position, waiting. It was not until he both heard and saw a group of the others, and judged them legitimate that he left his spot. The lines of fear and exhaustion marked them, but no one mentioned a devil in sight or sound. Yomiel kept his thoughts to himself, as always. Though, he considered, I might mention it to the crafty elf later. Shirley An ever increasing sense of dread filled Shirley as the sky darkened and the fog rolled in. This was fey work, though perhaps it was not an active construction; if they were fast, quiet, even-hearted, then perhaps they could get past without drawing its full attention. She increased the speed of her steps, hoping the rest of the uninitiated would follow suit. The Yetoman began complaining; his dark-skinned lackey had gone missing. She swore in her head and kept moving; there was no sense looking for him, or anyone else that followed the fey, and if one was gone, the rest would follow. The dread in her heart increased. What was stalking them? One of the crueler fey, for certain, but that wasn’t enough to know what to do, what to avoid, how to escape. The Yetoman kept yelling, but she did her best to ignore him; when the fey are involved, you can only protect yourself, and even that is a struggle at best. She would have to escape, and hope that the others got free with their minds intact. Most of them should be fine: the druid had sense enough, the obnoxious elf may well be too hard-headed for even the fey, and the cleric’s faith should shield him. She had her doubts about the boy and the Yetoman, and especially the two who had already succumbed to fey whimsy more than once, but there was nothing to be done. As she listened, the people behind her disappeared one by one. Shirley could feel the fear rising in her: it was unnatural, to be this frightened without cause. The fey was causing it, drawing it out of the corners of her heart and mind. As she thought this, she saw a figure standing by the trees, not too far away, and as her eyes glanced over it, she heard a terrible scream. She had heard this particular scream before, a long time ago, and it still graced her nightmares from time to time. Shocked by the sound, the fear in her took over, and she ran, nimbly navigating the uneven, foggy ground. Her mind raced with her body, trying to escape the memories that came unbidden, triggered by the scream. Suddenly, she realized what was going on and what was hounding them. She stopped running and stood up straight. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself, and steeled her mind against the creeping fear and dread. Looking forward, she ignored the sounds around her, recreations stolen from her memories, twisted, amplified, repeated. Eventually, the pale figure stepped out again. Though she could feel an instinctive urge to flee, she stood her ground. Raising her head, she said, “You will get no more from me.” It stood silently for a moment, regarding her with no eyes. Then it vanished. She could feel some of the burden of fear lift from her heart, but she was not yet free from its grasp, so she maintained her stance and her guard. The woods were silent. Suddenly, a new sound penetrated the fog, different from the fear-inducing mockeries produced by the thin man. This was a yell, harsher, more evil; it was meant to cause fear, yes, but not the same way. And though the language was undoubtedly inhuman, the voice that shouted it sounded suspiciously similar to the Yetoman’s. Shirley readied her bow, but stayed where she was. As she waited, she noticed the fog thin, and the otherworldly aura vanish, slowly yet perceptibly. She was back in the real world, as likely were the others. Still wary, she began to hunt down her wayward charges. They were all panicked of course, some more than others. When they had all been collected, she began to lead them away from the area, back on course. Her eyes lingered over the Yetoman. No one had mentioned hearing the demonic shout, and she didn’t want to cause additional problems today, not in the state everyone was in. The Yetoman was cocky, attempting to cover the panic he most assuredly had felt. Her eyes narrowed as she turned away, back to the path ahead of her. She’d feel much better once she was in Yeto, and would have nothing more to do with him. Jack and Ridley Ridley’s hand closed tightly over Jack’s. First there was the ominous fog, then Yomiel had disappeared. Shirley was obviously frightened, and the animals weren’t doing too much better. “Do not let go, for any reason,” he whispered to Jack, who nodded, also looking off-put by the situation. The sparrow that had been following him around, who apparently was also his dead girlfriend (to which Ridley had refrained from making any particular comments regarding) was also nervous, hopping back and forth and looking about. Jack lifted up his hat, and the small bird flew under it, taking shelter in his hair. Shirley began walking faster and faster; the two men tried to keep up, and they watched as the others, first Broken Tusk and his mastodon, then Ragoom, then finally Raito and Vol all fell behind. Eventually, Shirley’s lead got just a bit too far, and she was lost to the fog as well. The pair stopped to catch their breath, no longer with any real reason to keep running. “Well, fuck,” Ridley said bluntly, still gripping Jack’s hand. The two looked about. Suddenly, Jack paused. “Did you hear that?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice. Ridley gripped tighter. “No. Ignore it. Ignore everything,” was his response. Jack still seemed focused on the sound that Ridley couldn’t hear. “I hear someone calling…calling for help.” “Ignore it, Jack,” Ridley said, drawing out the words and emphasizing the warning. A third voice said something in the lilting language of the elves; Jack couldn’t understand it, but he seemed to be unconcerned, still focused on the far-away calls. Ridley, on the other hand, paled somewhat at the words. He turned and looked over his shoulder; what he saw caused his eyes to widen in shock, then almost immediately take on a glare of suspicion. He was looking at himself, or at least a reasonable copy: there were some subtle differences, a few mistakes that only someone very familiar with his appearance would notice. Ridley grinned coldly, though his eyes maintained their glare. “Well, that’s an interesting game you’re playing…” he trailed off. “Jack, how many mistakes can you count?” Jack did not look around, but his face looked pale and distraught, “It’s her…it’s her voice…she needs help.” He started to try to pull away, but Ridley wrenched his arm back. “Don’t do this, Jack,” he said, making the other man look him in the eyes. “It is a trick, it’s an illusion. They’re doing it to separate us and I need you to be here and with me so we can get out of this, alright?” Jack’s eyes kept darting back, “I…but, she…” The doppelganger said something again in elven, mocking, inching closer, looking both frightening and conniving. Ridley twitched at its words, looking into the distance, then swallowing hard and taking Jack’s attention again. “Jack! She’s dead! Two hours ago, you were telling me that she’s the bird on your head!” He was yelling now, trying to get him to listen. “Either way, that’s not her, it’s a trick, don’t listen!! I’m here! I need your help!!” Jack looked into his eyes for a moment; both men were afraid, for reasons that weren’t really all that different. “You’ll lose her again,” the doppelganger mocked, its voice now very close. Both turned to look, but it had moved out of sight. Instead, they saw the thin, pale figure of the fey, standing among the trees. Jack paled and whispered, “No…”, then much louder, “No!!” He wrenched his hand out of Ridley’s and tore off, away from the panic-inducing creature. “I won’t let it have her!” he yelled as he ran away, fueled by fear, though not for himself. “No!!” Ridley called as he reached after Jack, but he didn’t run. There was no point. He was gone. He stood alone in the misty woods. “So instead you’ll give it me…” he said plainly. “I meant to say ‘lose to her again’,” the doppelganger said mockingly. “My mistake.” Ridley did not turn around, staring flatly at the place where Jack had disappeared. He could hear the copy creeping closer. “You know, it was a pretty good try,” he said aloud, his tone conversational, his eyes dead. “You must be reading our minds. You’re right: there really isn’t much of anything that scares me more than myself. But really, if you were really thinking…shouldn’t that have told you something?” Ridley whipped around in a flash. He caught the doppelganger by the throat; his grip tightened and his fingers gouged into the soft flesh until blood poured out and things began to snap. His face was a portrait of insanity as he said to the copy, to himself, “Let’s see how real it made you.” Jack ran terrified through the woods. The voice of the girl he loved, frightened, in pain, calling for help, spurred him forward ever faster. Logic and reality had lost all meaning here; he was trapped in a nightmare, and it was all he could do to run until he woke up. Twice, he saw the pale faceless visage of the fey that tormented him; twice he was plunged to even greater depths of terror, and he was left bereft of all hope of calm or reason. Ridley was covered in blood: his hands and arms were soaked with it, as was his armour, though that was hidden by the glamour, and much of his legs and face were painted red as well. The remains of the doppelganger could hardly qualify as being a corpse; it had been beaten and ripped apart with a savagery generally reserved for rabid animals. Ridley was crouched down nearby, breathing heavily from exertion as he looked at the gory remains. He hung his head with an expression of sadness or shame. “What did I do?” he whispered, his voice distraught. He felt a cold chill, and saw a thin pale hand creep over his shoulder. With one fluid motion, Ridley whipped around, grabbed the front of the fey’s black clothes, stood up and shouted gleefully, “Gotcha!” He had a cruel grin as he brought his face right up to the fey’s, lacking as it was in features. “I can be pretty scary too. Want to see?” he asked. Suddenly, a harsh yell broke the silence. It was cruel, inhuman, and certainly not the work of the creature he held. Ridley looked away for a second towards the cry, and when he looked back, the fey had disappeared, leaving the elf holding the black mantle he had been wearing. Ridley laughed. “Coward!” he shouted out. He turned and started walking away, throwing the mantle over his shoulder; it wouldn’t come back for him. It knew who had mastered fear. Eventually the voice Jack followed was silenced; he stopped running and staggered about, winded and confused. The fog lifted and the normal sounds returned to the woods. He stood motionless, looking in the direction where he had been running, seeing no reason to move. Drained by the fey, he could not gather his thoughts or wits; the small sparrow chirped and pecked at him, but could get no response. His trance was broken by a bloody fist connecting with his cheekbone; it took a long rest and some magical healing before he regained all of his senses. Category:Banishment of the Blackblades